One Day at a Time
by BohemianFling
Summary: Beaman frets about his infatuation with Francine.


Time Frame: December, 1986

Disclaimer: Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon still own the characters, no matter how much I wish they were mine. The story is all mine.

Author's Notes: This story was originally posted on 05/20/2004. Shelly was challenged to write something out of her comfort zone and was given an item to include in the story. She was to write a first season story with no angst (yes, Shelly writing no angst!) and include a never before seen use of a light bulb. After she wrote her story, she challenged me, requesting I write a first person story from Beaman's POV, also using a never before seen use of a light bulb and, for added fun, including an item from **her** story—a Girl Scout uniform.

Thanks: Thanks a **lot** to Shelly, for forcing me to write a first person story! Could you hear the sarcasm in that? Also, with no sarcasm whatsoever, thanks to the Fabulous Beta Gals.

**One Day at a Time**

I groaned at the incessant noise that seemed to be echoing in my apartment, keeping me from much-needed sleep. 'Who runs a jackhammer on Christmas Eve?' I wondered.

When wrapping my pillow tightly around my head only served to amplify rather than dull the noise, I realized that the pounding was in my head, not coming from some over-zealous city worker. Cautiously, I removed the pillow and squinted at my alarm clock. I was less than thrilled to see that it was 6:45am, meaning I'd have to drag myself out of bed in fifteen minutes or face the wrath of Billy Melrose for being late to morning briefing.

My mouth and head felt like they were full of cotton, so I couldn't imagine what good I'd be at briefing. For about one second I contemplated calling in sick, but I knew Billy would have my head on a platter if I tried that. After all, he'd been at the party. I could almost hear him yelling, "Don't you dare pull that with me, Beaman! Get your hung-over butt in here NOW!" Even his imagined shouting was enough to motivate me to get my hung-over butt into gear.

With a groan, I pushed myself to a sitting position and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Planting my feet firmly on the floor, I sat for a few minutes, elbows resting on my knees and head in hands to stop the spinning of the room. 'Every year I tell myself I won't have anything to drink, and every year, I'm too stupid to follow my own advice. Why?' Looking between my fingers at the picture on my nightstand, I muttered, "You, that's why."

Francine Desmond's smiling face peered at me over the top of a partially filled glass of water.

I got shakily to my feet and flipped a wall switch, causing the far wall of the room to glow from the soft light of a hundred bulbs carefully arranged and painted to duplicate the image in the photo. I was no artist, but it was a pretty good likeness . . . and it usually made me feel better to see Francine's glowing face first thing in the morning and right before sacking out each night. Today, however, looking at it filled me with something bordering on despair. "Three hundred and sixty-five days of patience, and still no headway with you."

"Take your time with her—don't rush," Leatherneck had advised last Christmas. "Be yourself," he had stressed. "You're not Scarecrow, so stop trying to be him. Francine sees right through that."

Well, I took my time and stopped trying to be what I'm not, and where did that get me? Nowhere, that's where. She did seem more . . . tolerant of me on a professional level, but there was still no personal connection. So, what did I do? Got drunk and made a fool of myself at this year's party—second year in a row. What is it about men that makes us think alcohol will make us more attractive to women? It must be that missing chromosome.

I stared at my masterpiece of Francine and contemplated what to do about her. Suddenly my alarm clock began to beep, reminding me that I couldn't escape going into the office. I swiftly pushed the alarm button to stop the irritating noise. After one last look at the image on my wall, I sighed heavily and turned off the lights. There was no point in dreaming about her now. Although I couldn't recall much of my activity the previous night, I knew that putting me, Francine, and a bowl of the 'Agency Special' punch in the same room was a combination that always resulted in my turning into a lovesick puppy and saying something to her that I'd regret forever. Whatever my behavior had been last night, I had most likely destroyed any chance I may have had with her. If I could have just held it together this year, maybe she would have forgotten last year, but . . .

With another heavy sigh, I headed for the shower and forced my fuzzy brain to concentrate on the daunting task of getting through the day without making an even bigger fool of myself.

SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK SMK

"Hey, Effram! Whatcha doin' hidin' in here?" Mitch Carlson's voice boomed cheerily—too cheerily, as far as I was concerned—as he entered the office. "There's a major shindig happenin' in Bonnie's office . . ."

His voice trailed off when I grunted and glared at him over the rim of my mug. Even eight hours—and more cups than I cared to count of the mud the Agency called coffee—hadn't fully removed the blurriness of the morning after.

Mitch's eyebrows went up a notch. "Oh." His head bobbed in understanding. "Too much of the shindig in the bullpen last night, huh?"

"Someone ought to make you an agent, you're so observant."

Mitch's enormous belly laugh filled the room, making me wince. "Effram, old man, you gotta learn to go easy on the firewater. Getting drunk is no way to win Desmond's heart. I keep tellin' ya, she's outta your league. That one, she goes for princes and heads of state."

I tossed him another dirty look. "Did you have a reason for stopping by, other than to spread all this Christmas cheer?"

With a grin, Mitch tossed a thick packet onto my desk. "Background checks. They're all on agents with at least five years in, so I'm not expecting any surprises, but you know how it is." He shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess. Melrose wants an update at the 9am briefing on the 30th, and since Crump gave me the keys to his cabin for the long weekend . . . " A hopeful gleam entered his eyes, one I had no trouble interpreting.

"Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. Go enjoy the weekend with your latest squeeze. I'll take care of it."

I sighed as Mitch practically created a hurricane in the office as he blew out the door. People with social lives could be so annoying.

Frowning at the packet, I figured I might as well take a look before heading home. Reading routine background checks on agents, especially on agents who'd been around for a while, tended to be more boring than watching paint dry, but it would be better to get them out of the way before the holiday. I didn't want to spend five days thinking about having to read all the dull paperwork first thing on Monday morning, and there was no way I was taking it home. I didn't have a romantic getaway in the woods planned, but I had my pride. I wasn't about to be so pitiful that I'd do Agency business on my only few days off in months.

The first few files were predictably boring, and the investigations had uncovered nothing new. No surprises meant the update for Melrose would be a snap, but it made for tedious reading. Pushing back from my desk, I yawned and stretched before turning my attention to the next file.

Flipping the folder open, my eyes almost popped out of my head at the sight of a young Francine Desmond—twelve years old, from the date on the caption—in a Girl Scout uniform. Her grin was a mile wide as she proudly displayed a badge for the camera, one that was obviously destined for one of the few open spaces on the sash slung across her chest.

Glancing at the clock, I realized I still had time to catch Francine before her customary 'work until 6pm on Christmas Eve' shift ended. Beaming, I reached for the telephone.

As I waited for her to answer the phone, I dug my magnifying glass out of my desk. Before I had a chance to study the photo closer, she answered with a curt, "Desmond."

"Hiya, Francine. Beaman here." I smiled at the exaggerated sigh that served as her greeting and plunged forward. Leaning back in my chair, I propped my feet up on my desk.

"How about the two of us going out for a drink after work?"

"I believe I answered that last night—a few times, I'm sure." Snidely, she added, "But maybe you were too . . . _not yourself_ to remember."

I grimaced at her tone. Things were foggy, but based on my pounding head, I was a hundred percent sure I'd been a total jerk. I just wasn't entirely clear on **how** exactly I'd been a jerk. "Yeah, about that . . . I'm sorry, Francine. I think the punch had a lot more punch to it this year, and I overindulged a bit." Her snort told me that 'a bit' was, in her opinion, a gross understatement. Nevertheless, I forged ahead. "I hope you won't hold that against me and will change your mind about tonight."

"Not in **this** lifetime."

"Hmm. You sure about that?"

"Beaman," her voice took on a hard edge. "It's Christmas Eve, and I'm up to my ears in an investigation. I don't have time for . . ."

I interrupted her with a little bait. "Your routine background check came in today." And I waited. I knew her curiosity about what I might have on her would get the better of her.

She sounded puzzled when she asked, "My background check? What about it? I've had about a dozen of them, and . . . " I smiled as I pictured her eyes narrowing as she started putting pieces together. "Exactly what's in that report?" she demanded.

"Well, let's see . . " I pulled the file onto my lap and casually read from it. "Typical verification of date and place of birth, parents' backgrounds are clean, no police record, couple parking tickets in high school, education record's in order, spotless Agency service history . . ."

I swore I heard her teeth grating together when she ground out, "Would you get to the point?"

"There seems to be a discrepancy regarding extra-curricular activities. You appear to have neglected to report a particular association that the Agency should have known about."

"Extra-curr . . .?" I could hear the confusion in her voice. "Are you trying to tell me there's something in that report that suggests I've been involved with subversives or something?"

"I'm afraid it's worse than that."

"Worse? Militants? An anti-American group?" The confusion turned to indignation mixed with a small amount of fear. "You know damn well I've never been involved with anything that would jeopardize my position at the Agency!"

"So you deny ever having . . . hold on a second while I get a better look at this picture." I let her stew for a minute while I examined the photo carefully through my magnifying glass. The small badge in young Francine's hand became easy to read, and I choked back laughter. "Ah, yes, that's better. So, then, Francine, on record, do you deny having earned a basket weaving badge in the Girl Scouts?"

Stony silence met my question. I gave her a full minute to think about it before prompting, "Francine?"

"Drinks. **Just** drinks. And bring that picture." Her voice was calmer than I'd expected, calm in a way that normally would have turned my blood to ice, but right now, it made my blood pump furiously. This kind of pounding in my head was actually welcome.

"I'm on my way." My feet hit the floor before I completed the sentence.

"Beaman—don't you **dare** make any copies. And if I hear you told a single soul about it, you'll wish you'd never heard the name Francine Desmond!" she threatened before slamming the receiver in my ear.

I grinned widely as I pulled on my jacket and stuffed the photo into the breast pocket. As I created the second hurricane in my office in an hour, I whooped "Merry Christmas to me!" on my way to the bullpen.

**The End**


End file.
